(1964) The Man

by Irving Wallace

  Abrahams had reddened. “Doug—” he began.

  “No, let me finish. Here we have it, seven billion dollars for public highway construction, desegregated but quota-limited schools, dams, factories, forest conservation, and sure, preferential treatment so Negroes do the work involved and receive the benefits. But, Nat, despite all those watered-down civil rights bills passed in recent years, when we talk about the American Negro today, we still talk about five rights being kept away from him—five, not one. The right to work, and not be the first to be fired, the last to be hired, and not be exiled to menial jobs. All right, this bill takes care of that. What about his other four rights? Will this bill really give the Negro the right to use public facilities? To have first-rate education? To occupy integrated housing? To enjoy freedom to vote like any other American? No. There are a few crumbs, sure. Sweep them together and what do they represent? No segregation in buildings constructed under this MRP Bill. Higher salaries for teachers who go into slum areas or work in desegregated schools, and some free tutoring programs and scholarships. Better and cheaper housing in the tracts the bill subsidizes for those who will move into these mixed neighborhoods. And on voting, nothing specific, the usual patriotic promises and hopes. So there it is, and our Negro leaders are ready to accept the crumbs because they’re tired of fighting for the loaf, when they’ve been hungry more than a century. I can understand that. But I’m troubled. This bill may rehabilitate the minorities financially, but it won’t raise them up to full equality. And in the end, it may be only a delaying action, and solve nothing for the white population either. Yet I could be wrong, dead wrong. Maybe fights are won one skirmish at a time, and this would gain my people one right they desperately want. And who am I to worry it so, be indecisive again, when smarter minds support this bill? Still—” He stared directly at Abrahams and then held up the stapled sheets of paper. “I guess it was unfair of me to expect you to include all that other in your summary, because I felt lame and sort of wanted a crutch. It’s just that this didn’t sound like you’d written it.”

  Dilman sat back, and fumbled for his drink.

  Quickly Nat Abrahams leaned forward and took the papers from Dilman’s lap. “I didn’t write it, Doug. Eagles Industries wrote it. Avery Emmich wrote it. Gordon Oliver wrote it. They wanted me to transmit it to you—first assignment—and I did. I’m ashamed of myself now. I knew, the second I handed it to you, I could never go through with it, pretending it was mine.”

  Embarrassed, Dilman tried to stop him. “Forget it, Nat. You did what you had to do, and some of the points in there are well made.”

  Abrahams stood up, ripped the paper in half, worked it into a ball, and stuffed it into his trouser pocket.

  “It stinks,” he said flatly. “I’ll never do this to you again, no more harmonizing with others on what they believe. I’ll rely on solo. Doug, you’ve said it, there’s good in the minorities bill and there’s bad. It’s a big decision you have to make, and there are a lot of considerations to keep in mind, but you’ll do what you must do, for yourself and others. No one’s going to influence you. You wanted my opinion, and I’ll give it to you if you still want it.”

  “I do, I sure do, Nat. Who else can I listen to?”

  “Yourself. But let me have my own honest say, and then I’ll shut up. . . . Doug, I hate this minorities bill. I hate its pretense. Every reservation you hold is true, as far as I’m concerned. T. C. and most of Congress invented this legislation as an emergency measure. The country is splintered apart—always has been—but these years it’s been worse than ever. Negro revolution, you bet, and about time. So how does one put down a revolution, especially a just one? By force? Impossible in our democracy. Unthinkable. By giving in to those discriminated against, giving them justice and making democracy a true one? Difficult. Too much ignorance, blind hatred, senseless fear, and politics, for which read compromise. By bribery? The old Roman trick? The only way. So they came up with this MRP. Put down the insurrection and buy peace with money. Money is cheaper than decency. So here is a vast hog-barrel, boondoggling bribe to buy off the Negroes. And the Negroes can’t resist. They are weak, tired of the long slow fight, and—you said it—they’re hungry. If you’ve got to choose between having three square meals a day and money in the bank and all the wonders and advantages of materialism, as against waiting for the less tangible advantages of full liberty, which will you choose? So the Negroes, most of them, have given in. And the whites, big business, big labor unions—they love it. They’ve paid off the revolutionists and their guilty consciences, and they’ve purchased safety. And a good deal more besides, because they’ll make profits, giving with one charitable hand, taking it back with the other.

  “Everyone is happy, almost everyone, except those few of your people who are willing to go hungry a little longer to get five-fifths of what belongs to them, not one-fifth, and except the impractical liberals like myself who know better and want better for your people—but, of course, can afford to despise this bill because our stomachs are full. Now you’ve heard all I have to say, Doug, and don’t listen to it. I don’t have to make the decision. I don’t have to worry if I’ve done a disservice to minorities or expediently helped them endure the near future. I don’t have to worry if my opinion is weightier than those of several hundred experts. I don’t have to worry how I feel if I do sign or what will happen to me and the country if I do not sign. Don’t you listen to me, the man from Eagles Industries with a full stomach, Doug. I teed off this way because I wanted you to know I am still the man you’ve always known me to be. As for you, I know—”

  There was a sharp knocking, and Dilman’s attention was diverted to the lounge door.

  “Mr. President,” a voice called out, “it’s Secretary Eaton.”

  “Come in.”

  The door swung open, and Eaton entered. He appeared disconcerted to find Abrahams with Dilman, then recovered his poise. His manner toward Dilman was concerned and sympathetic. “I missed you on deck, and I only wanted to know that you were all right, Mr. President. Is everything satisfactory?”

  Dilman stood up and offered his Secretary of State a half-humorous grimace. “Mr. Secretary, to be perfectly frank with you, everything couldn’t be worse. I’ve been seasick—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President.”

  “—and while there has been an improvement, I’m still uncomfortable. If I am Commander in Chief of all the troops on land and all the ships at sea, I’d like to issue my first naval order. Have someone turn this damn yacht right around and deposit me safe and sound on God’s good earth.”

  Eaton’s conditioned countenance betrayed neither approval nor disapproval. “As you wish it, Mr. President. I’ll transmit your order to Commander Chappell at once.”

  “And my apologies to our guests for cutting short their little outing.”

  Eaton nodded, and hurriedly left. The second that the cabin door closed, Dilman pivoted toward Nat Abrahams and gave him a wide grin and an elaborate salute.

  “How was that, teacher?”

  Abrahams smiled. “You’re learning. You get an A.”

  Dilman had become solemn once more. “Now what I need is an A where it counts more, in political science.” He took up the manila folder holding the minorities bill and balanced it thoughtfully. “Of course, it all depends on who does the grading, doesn’t it?”

  He stuffed the folder into his briefcase, pressed it shut, then went to Abrahams and took him by the arm. “For some reason, I feel better now. I think everything is settling into place, anatomically speaking. I’m ready to fish awhile, if you are. Who knows, Nat? We might even catch something we’ll be proud of. . . .”

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  Office of the White House Press Secretary

  * * *

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  * * *

  THE PRESIDENT HAS REQUESTED SPECIAL TIME OF ALL MAJOR TELEVISION AND RADIO NETWORKS TONIGHT TO ADDRESS THE NATION AT 7:00 P.M., EDT, ON THE SUB
JECT OF THE MINORITIES REHABILITATION PROGRAM AND THE BILL CONCERNING THIS PROGRAM AWAITING HIS SIGNATURE. THE FULL TEXT OF HIS ADDRESS WILL BE DISTRIBUTED TO THE PRESS FROM THIS OFFICE TEN MINUTES AFTER HE IS ON THE AIR.

  * * *

  ALTHOUGH it was too soon for Governor Talley to have arrived upstairs for their private meeting, before the others came, before the President’s television address began, Secretary of State Arthur Eaton found it impossible to sit out the intervening time in the loneliness of his huge seventh-floor office.

  Ever since receiving Governor Talley’s cryptic, but definitely frantic, telephone call from the White House ten minutes ago, Arthur Eaton had been worried and on edge. He had not liked the tone, and the inconceivable implications, of Talley’s abbreviated call. Apparently, even in the privacy of his own White House office, Talley had been suspicious of being overheard or monitored. Yet what he had said, guarded as he had been, had been made meaningful and eloquent enough by his nettled speech and its unnatural brevity.

  Pacing, Arthur Eaton reconstructed what little he had heard:

  “Arthur? This is Wayne Talley. I’ve just come from Edna Foster’s office. The President wouldn’t see me. He had Miss Foster give back the speech we wrote. He’s written his own.”

  “His own? What are you talking about, Wayne? What kind of nonsense is that? Are you pulling my leg?”

  “Arthur, I swear—”

  “What in the devil has he written? What is in it?”

  “Arthur, I can’t speak. I’d better see you as soon as possible, before the others. Shall I come to your office?”

  “Yes—no, wait—I think we want some seclusion. You use the E Street entrance. Take my private elevator right up to the top, to the eighth floor. I’ll leave word for them to let you come up, and the others, also. I’ll be waiting in the Madison Dining Room. . . . How does it look to you, Governor? He’s going to sign the bill, of course?”

  “I think so, I think so, there’s nothing else he can do. It’s what he’s going to say about it that bothers me. I’ll get over to State right away, Arthur. Good-bye.”

  That was all the evidence Eaton had to go by, ten minutes ago and now.

  The degree to which the news had flustered him was a surprise. He had been schooled to be poised for the unexpected. Even international masters of the unexpected, like Premier Kasatkin, could be anticipated. One studied their arcs of reasoning, from the top curve of predictability to the bottom curve of unpredictability, and if one knew their backgrounds, ambitions, pressures, one could be ready to bisect and contain them at any point of the arc. But Dilman, apparently, had proved himself to be unlike other men.

  This, then, was a part of what had unsettled Arthur Eaton, jolted his superior complacency. He had, of course, made his study of the new President, a shallow study, to be truthful, but then, the man had appeared to have no subtle resources that would require an examination of more depth. Dilman had given the impression, from the first, of a person obvious and simple to divine, or so it had seemed to one of Eaton’s wide experience with more clever and devious men.

  Of three dozen important demands made upon him, Dilman had been agreeable to all, well, all save two, and even in these two matters he had finally performed what was requested of him. He had not signed the New Succession Bill into law, that was true, but he had weakly permitted it to become law, with only the mildest legalistic protest. No one had minded that too much, considering Dilman’s color and sensitivity and his need not to condone publicly a legislative insult. The fact was: he had come along.

  Then, in the invoking of the Subversive Activities Control Act, he had displayed faint resistance, evidenced by hesitancy and delay. Yet his hesitancy, if one was reasonable, could not be regarded as unexpected. He had been asked to outlaw a segment of his own race, and suffer their ire, and had recoiled from it as long as possible. Too, his behavior toward the Turnerites, if one studied these matters as Eaton did, was the natural result of his personality. Time and again he had shown himself to be fearful and uncertain, and therefore indecisive and slow. This was simply his style. In the end, predictably, he had banned the Turnerite Group.

  But this new development of ten or fifteen minutes ago, this was unusual. To date, his slowness in signing the Minorities Rehabilitation Program Bill was not unexpected, but part of his pattern. His sudden announcement yesterday, before the Cabinet meeting adjourned, that he had decided to address the nation on the bill, had been a minor surprise to Eaton and all of them only because they did not expect an act of impulse on Dilman’s part. Yet, once more, it was an understandable desire. Many Presidents, before approving of a crucial or gigantic piece of spending legislation, liked to explain their belief in what they were doing, mention minor reservations (as political self-protection if anything went wrong or there was dissent), and to dramatize their own roles in a useful action. No, it was not unexpected that Dilman, conscious that the minorities bill was T. C.’s bill, would wish to reap some of T. C.’s popularity and curry some favor (when he needed it most) by projecting himself before the public on millions of television screens as one of the authors of the bountiful bill.

  It had been routine for T. C.’s writers and special counselors to spend the remainder of yesterday afternoon, following the Cabinet meeting, and most of the evening, sketching out and molding into final form a public speech, in this case the fifteen-minute address on the minorities bill that explained its virtues and Dilman’s own approval. Dilman had known that they were preparing his address, and had offered no objections. Late last night Dilman had received the polished final draft from Talley, with no indication of protest, indeed with thanks. And to Talley’s suggestion that should Dilman desire any changes today, everyone would be standing by to help him, Dilman had again been appreciative.

  And now, for the first time, the unpredictable: Dilman had rejected their speech in favor of one he had written, was writing, himself. He had displayed his first evidence of decisive action, of individuality, of independence, of ignoring advice from his betters—no, not his betters—his more experienced advisers.

  Eaton had tried to penetrate the President’s motivation for this silly and small rebellion. It did not mean that Dilman was opposing their wishes, the wishes, in fact, of Congress, the country, his own race, in regard to the important bill. No, one unaccountable action did not imply or indicate a more drastic one to follow. All Dilman was doing was demanding to write their speech his way. A sensitive colored man was asserting his rights. That was it. Eaton could see it more clearly now. By overlooking consideration of that one dimension of President Dilman’s color, Eaton had almost erred in anticipating his behavior. Dilman’s color had been largely responsible for his quick servility, his readiness to come along, his indecisiveness. This same color, Eaton saw, must occasionally drive him into some action of immature self-assertion, as if to remind the whites around him that he was their equal, a man with a mind of his own. That was it, of course, the complete explanation. Dilman was doing their bidding, whatever his secret qualms, on the Minorities Rehabilitation Bill, but was reminding them that although he must do what he was being told to do, he still would not allow himself to be held in utter contempt. In short, Eaton saw, the President must at least be permitted to say in his own words what his advisers wanted said.

  Eaton told himself that his analysis made sense. He congratulated himself on clearing up the enigma. Yet, he realized, he was still unnerved. Why? Well, dammit, what President of the United States had ever shielded the contents of a vital domestic policy speech—in this case the most vital one in a decade—from everyone around him?

  Tired of trying to solve mysteries with insufficient clues, impatient to learn the details of Talley’s encounter with Dilman, or with the protective Miss Foster, Arthur Eaton left his office. He proceeded through his stenographer’s office—reminded, those moments, that he was to have met Sally Watson in his home shortly after the speech, resenting the fact that he might now be delayed, and had
better phone her to come later—and then he entered the small reception room and went on into the main reception room. The desk there, too, was empty. He noted the time. It was eleven minutes after six o’clock. Everyone had gone home.

  Yet not quite everyone, Eaton realized. Two clerks passed busily through the corridor. Assistant Secretary Stover, in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a dispatch, waved at him. The sight of such activity pleased Eaton. At least here, in his dominion, there were no mysteries, and nothing was unknown to him. Under his exacting rule, guided by his cool intelligence and supported by a five-hundred-million-dollar annual budget, his army of seven thousand foreign affairs specialists toiled, and one thousand of these worked through the night. It gave him pride that his palace, the Department of State Building, was never dark—as, so suddenly, the White House had become dark.

  Restlessly, to kill time, Arthur Eaton wandered into the corridor. He turned right, made his way across the rich blue carpeting, absently glanced at the framed pictures of the nation’s previous Secretaries of State on the wall, then came to a halt before Room 7228, the corridor entrance to his own office. He studied the two words lettered on the walnut panel of his door. They read simply: the secretary. He thought of the many persons who saw these two words daily, and how few understood the encompassing, far-reaching nature of his responsibility, reaching back to T. C., reaching ahead to every American citizen everywhere, reaching now into that suddenly secretive Oval Office at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.